


she wanted, but god, she didn't know what she wanted

by PrismaticMilk



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: F/M, Hurt Wanda Maximoff, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Incest, Masturbation, Minor Pepper Potts/Tony Stark, Non-Consensual Touching, Non-Consensual Voyeurism, Possessive Behavior, Unrequited Love, Wanda Maximoff Needs a Hug
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-19
Updated: 2019-08-19
Packaged: 2020-09-07 05:01:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20303875
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PrismaticMilk/pseuds/PrismaticMilk
Summary: Stark who killed her parents, and Stark who killed her brother.Stark who loved but could not love her.





	she wanted, but god, she didn't know what she wanted

**2:19 AM**

Darkness wrapped gingerly around her shoulders, hanging off her like a guilty weight, pulling, begging, pleading. It taunted her, like a rat would a mousetrap, taking piece by piece, little by little until nothing but a few measly, meaningless crumbs were left. 

It craved for something like her, a monster, a wolf in sheep’s clothing, someone so pathetic and so sworn with odium, tasting her was not unlike swallowing a pill. She wasn’t a parlour trick with cards hidden in her sleeves and a bunny in her coat pocket; there was as much red in her ledger as there was red splattered against velvet walls.

She was sick; that much she knew, her throat parched as her left hand searched through the cold empyrean for her glass of water, viridescent eyes staring up into the dark abyss above her. 

Tendrils of cardinal red, like a rose in a field of white, reached out and encircled the glass, pulling it to her like a cat would a string. 

She sat up, her shoulder blades pressed against the wooden frame of her headboard as she downed the lukewarm water greedily, drops spilling down her chin and across the curve of her collarbone, like the blood that drowned the blue from her brother’s sweatshirt. 

She let the glass roll onto the floor as she relaxed back into her water-like sheets, the fabric like velvet against her searing flesh as she watched the glass crash and spread across her floor like a spider’s web. 

A weak smile curled at the tips of Wanda's lips, coloured with vermeil and brimming with exhaustion. Her skull throbbed as she sunk deeper into the cool mattress, her thin, pale fingers tugging loosely at the hem of her gown, slowly pushing it up her pearly thighs. 

Her dainty fingertips traced the rim of her demure undergarments, her skin trembling underneath her prurient touch. It awakened something within Wanda — an uncouth greed; a want that left her in stitches, pulling at the loose strings of her ingenuous façade.

Wanda wanted to pull her curious hands away, return to her dreary thoughts of what is and what was — keep herself from the vulgar mind of her indecorous lust, but as her delicate fingers pressed into the soft of her stomach, she trembled. 

It was Stark’s birthday yesterday. He didn’t celebrate as she assumed he would with scotch at his fingertips and a bottle of gin at his feet, rather, he just sat there in the living room, his knees pulled tight to his chest. Eyes kind, too kind for her liking. Stark didn't have a heart. Stark was cold and everything metal and sharp. He cut into her like a blade, and he didn't care whose blood he spilt as long as it wasn't his own. 

His fiance was next to him, her red hair a great hungry serpent, licking at the nape of her neck like a spark of cinder as she leaned close to him, her lips thin albeit the mirth in her eyes.

Their feet were touching, but it was enough for Wanda to want to scream and scream and _ scream. _ The monster she had read about in the tabloids did not _ love. _ He lusted, he used, he _fucked, _and yet, there he was. Happy, shameless, beautiful.

There wasn’t a sweaty, unkempt body underneath him when she came down to his room to watch him sleep that night either. He was alone, and even as she laid down next to him, she liked to think he was still alone, wafting through space, cold and desolate and without the familiarity of what warmth was. 

Except, now she was alone, and perhaps she was meant to stay that way; unmoving and unfeeling. No one would be her knight in shining armour. Rather, the crickets beyond her beside would be her company, singing to the tune of her whirring fan and drowning out her cries.

She wondered if her brother was watching her from above, from the stars, from the moon, and from the place where no one but death can go. Could he see her as the palm of her hand kissed the swell of her breast? Could he hear her as her breath hitched, her back arching towards the empty ceiling as she crooned like a ruby-throated hummingbird?

Red nails brushed her rusty-rose nipple, kneading the ample flesh, and she envisioned it was Stark's hand fondling her; his nails biting into her tender flesh, his lips and tongue ravishing the delicate curve of her collarbone.

Did her brother cry as she called out the name of the man that killed their parents?

“I’m sorry,” she murmured, the words sounding sour on her tongue as she tugged at her swollen breast, the milky flesh turning the dusky hue of a damask rose. Something like bile rose up in her throat, something hot and warm and nasty — it clogged her throat and filled her mind, made her see the green and the ugly that surrounded it.

She wanted, but god, she didn’t know _ what _she wanted. She wanted to see Stark underneath her, inside of her, warm and thick like molasses. She wanted him on her floor, his blood seeping through the floorboards, teeth and nails shattered like glass.

Wanda hoisted herself up on her elbow, breast swaying as swung her legs over the edge of the bed, her eyes half-lidded as she clicked on the light of her incandescent lamp. She stared at her distorted, pink reflection, rubbing harshly at her flushed cheeks as crystals tears seemingly blended in with the beads of sweat dripping from her brow.

The glass at her beside cut into her feet, peeling away at her flesh like beetles. The glass ate at her feet, but she didn’t mind, she desired pain, desired something other than the lust and green that suffocated her.

The distant, monotone voice in the ceiling did nothing to stop her from walking into the elevator and down to Stark’s floor. There was a low buzz in the back of her mind, and someone, a rather sinister and pathetic voice was speaking to her like she always wanted Stark too.

Stark who killed her parents, and Stark who killed her brother. 

Stark who loved but could not love her.

Perhaps, he wasn’t meant to be alone, not as she wanted him to be.

He didn’t know have to know it was her body he held at night, her bare breasts against the cold metal of the arc reactor.

He was hers, at least, until death. 


End file.
